The Case of the Missing Umbrella
by Art-Over-Matter
Summary: This is one of the very few cases which John believes may stump Sherlock Holmes. Three murders, completely different, and more on the way. Even Sherlock knows he's not getting anywhere. If he wants to solve this, he'll have to ask for help. But by the time he does, the one person most important to him is already in danger...
1. The Call

**A/N: A couple things I should mention before you start reading. This is my first (and maybe only?) Sherlock fic, so please excuse its badness. Also, I'm an American author trying to write Britishly (totally a word), so if you're British and you catch something that doesn't quite sound right, feel free to mention it in a review. Okay, now on the story. It's really not that good, but if you're desperately looking for something new, here you go...**

It was a typical spring day in London. The weather was overcast, with heavy, dark clouds at one end of the sky. It had been raining heavily that morning, but had at last settled into a light drizzle.

John Watson had been gone for most of the day, which he was often hesitant to do. He had reasons for this of course, and they were on his mind as he exited a cab and stepped onto Baker Street.

John frowned as he walked up to 221B.

"What has he been up to?" John muttered to himself, grabbing his umbrella from where it had been leaning against the door. He entered the flat and went up the stairs to where he knew he would find his friend.

Sherlock Holmes was bored. This was evidenced by the fact that the wall had some new holes in it and that Sherlock's pistol was sitting on the table. At the current moment, the consulting detective was in the process of applying a nicotine patch to his arm.

"Why did you leave my umbrella outside?" John asked with a sigh.

Sherlock did not supply an answer. He remained sitting, his fingertips now pressed together in front of his chin, his eyes locked onto something—or nothing—across the room. In fact, there was no sign whatsoever that he had even heard John's arrival.

But of course he had, because he never missed anything.

"Sherlock," John insisted, standing in the doorway, watching the detective, who was nearly motionless on the couch. "I thought you only did that—" he gestured to the patch on Sherlock's arm "—when you were trying to work out a case."

"It's preparation," Sherlock responded in a quick, flat tone.

"For what?" John asked.

Sherlock still didn't look at him. "Any moment now, a particular detective inspector is going to call in need of my help. It may only be a five or a six, but nevertheless, he often seems incapable of figuring cases out on his own."

John sighed and shook his head, stepping fully into the room and looking at the umbrella in his hand. He decided to ask about it later. "So why do you know that?" he asked, sitting down in his chair.

"Because I know he had a case, and when he has a case, so do I."

As if on cue, Sherlock's phone rang.


	2. The Scene

The man had been dead for some time—most of the morning and afternoon, at least. He was alone in a dusty, small office that seemed like it hadn't been used for many months.

"There's next to nothing here," Lestrade said, stepping aside to let John and Sherlock onto the scene. "If the murderer was ever here, he left with no trace."

Sherlock said nothing to this and instead pulled out his magnifying glass and began to examine the body.

John knelt next to the dead man as he finished pulling on gloves. He lifted the man's eyelids and checked his neck and throat to confirm his suspicion.

"Well, he died of asphyxiation, I know that much," he said, standing up to get out of Sherlock's way.

"Yes," Sherlock said, still at work picking up details. "But there wasn't a struggle—at least, not one involving another person."

"Well, right," John said, feeling suddenly as though it were rather useless for him to be there, "he wasn't strangled, or there would be marks."

"Was the door locked?" Sherlock asked without looking at Lestrade.

"The door into the office? No."

"The killer was never here," Sherlock said, standing up and sliding his magnifying glass closed. "This man was here for about thirty minutes to an hour before he died, and he was completely alone. Whatever killed him took some time. He was losing control of his motor skills, which is obvious not only because he failed to call an ambulance despite the fact that he had a phone, but also by the struggle he had in trying to open the door. You say the door wasn't locked, so it wouldn't make sense for him to fail to open it unless he was partially paralysed."

There was a moment of silence.

"How do you know he struggled with the door?" John asked with a frown, looking to the wooden office door.

"The knob is slightly loose," Sherlock answered, "you can tell just by looking at it. I noticed on the way in that the wood has slight scratches on it on the inside, often three or four roughly parallel to each other, which means he couldn't control himself well enough to just turn the knob—he was scratching at it in an attempt to get it to open. The position and angle of the scratches suggest that he was on the ground when he tried to open it. It was too late for him at that point, but he didn't know that. He did know he would have no luck with his phone, since it required too delicate of movements. His only option, then, was to leave the room in the hope someone would happen upon him on this floor. Which still wasn't very likely, of course, because as you can see—or rather, as I can see—this floor of the building isn't used very often."

John and Greg exchanged a glance.

"So…what killed him, then?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock looked at the body. "Well, we know it involved paralysis and asphyxiation—that narrows it down a bit. Probably a poison of sorts, something quick-acting, killing the victim within an hour, or something dormant until a particular variable is introduced, in which case, he could have been exposed to it days ago." Sherlock looked up at Lestrade. "An autopsy should explain the rest, but get the body to St. Bart's quickly, the poison could break down after time."

Lestrade shook his head and called for some men to get the body.

John looked to Sherlock. "You made short work of that."

"It was all very obvious," Sherlock said. "To me, at least."


	3. The Poison

"Of course, Sherlock was perfectly right," Molly said, stripping off her gloves. "He was poisoned."

"What was it?" John asked, putting his hands in his pockets.

"Pseudaconitine."

John raised his eyebrows. "Excuse you?"

"It's a very potent poison," Sherlock said. "Found naturally in plants in the _Aconitum_ genus, particularly Indian monkshood."

Molly nodded.

John didn't bother asking how Sherlock knew this. "But how did he come in contact with a poisonous plant? And does this mean it's not murder?"

Sherlock shook his head. "He would have had to come in contact with the plant right before going to that office. This is London, they don't plant monkshood, particularly not Indian monkshood. What are the chances he ingested it?" he asked Molly.

"Practically zero," she said. "If he had, there would have been signs of gastrointestinal damage, which there wasn't. He had to have touched it."

"To answer your question, John, no, this doesn't mean it isn't murder. In fact, the evidence says it is."


	4. The Detective

**Three days later**

"I'm missing something. How am I missing something?" Sherlock growled, pacing back and forth in agitation.

John sighed and looked up from his computer. "You're only human, you know."

"Am I?" Sherlock responded dryly.

"Well, I'll admit I have my doubts," John said, "but as far as I know—"

" _How_ were they exposed, John, how?"

There had been another incident. This time the victim had been a woman, alone at a bus stop on a rainy afternoon. She had died the same way as the man before: poisoned by pseudaconitine. The two situations, it seemed to John, had been as different as possible, but that the two people were killed the same way. Two days apart.

John had to admit he was slightly concerned by Sherlock's behaviour. The detective was agitated, restless, and nearly intolerable to be around.

Sherlock had decided, upon seeing the second body, that the killer wasn't done. It wasn't a one-time thing, they discovered—no personal vendetta against the man in the office—and Sherlock had deduced enough to decide that this was going to continue until the killer decided he/she was satisfied.

So there were more lives in danger, but they didn't know how to prevent them.

That, however, was not what John figured was bothering Sherlock. No, what was nagging so persistently at Sherlock Holmes was the fact that he hadn't solved the case yet. He seemed certain that the answer couldn't be that complicated—at least, not for him—but he hadn't figured it out.

That was what bothered him.

"You know, Sherlock," John said, witnessing the application of Sherlock's third nicotine patch, "you could ask for help sometimes. You know where to find it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And who in this _country_ would be better at making deductions—" He stopped, understanding now what John meant. "I'm not going to my brother for this," he said flatly but indignantly.

John sighed and closed his laptop. "Well, there are human lives at stake here, Sherlock. Surely that means _something_ to you."

Sherlock didn't respond.

John paused, glanced around, and added, "I'm here too, you know. I can't make deductions like you can, but if there's anything else…." He trailed off when he realized Sherlock wasn't listening.

"I need my mind palace," Sherlock said suddenly but not quickly, looking up at John.

John raised his eyebrows. "Right." He stood up. "I suppose that means I just leave…."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He simply turned away and closed his eyes.

John shook his head and left. He did his best to put up with Sherlock when he was—there was no other way to put it—being an ass, but sometimes it was hard. And he had to admit to himself that he was tired of giving him the benefit of the doubt.


	5. The Divide

John entered his room and paused in the doorway. He'd come to realize recently that a lot of how he felt or what he did each day depended on Sherlock. There was no question why; Sherlock was the wildcard between the two of them. After all, John didn't have mood swings or shoot at the wall when he was bored.

John sat on his bed and absentmindedly rifled through the random items he had in his bedside cabinet.

Ever since he met Sherlock, his time in Afghanistan had become more and more of a distant memory. It wasn't something constantly hanging at the back of his mind anymore—he could forget about it from time to time.

That didn't change the fact that he still kept some odds and ends from the war. His bedside cabinet remained the place where he kept his pistol, along with a few medications he'd never use: lidocaine, atropine, etc. He wondered if anyone would think he was a drug addict if they came across his drawer. Not that any of them were commonly used recreationally, but it was strange for a semi-normal man like himself to keep such things around. He didn't have a reason for it. But one day, they could've saved his or another man's life—and he'd seen them do so—so somehow, they still stuck around.

John shook old memories out of his head. There seemed a divide in his life: the war, and then Sherlock. Two eras, two John Watsons.

He had to keep himself in Sherlock era, despite the fact that Sherlock was rather being a dick right now.

And now, in this era, it was time to forget Sherlock's pride and ask for help.


	6. The British Government

"Well, it's not very often _you_ seek _me_ out, now is it?"

"Er, no. In fact, I think—it hasn't happened before. But…this is different."

Mycroft's cool grey eyes sharpened their gaze. "This is about my brother."

John nodded. "More or less. Er, more, actually. Yes."

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. "The two of you have been slightly more distant than usual. He must've done something or said something before you left. You were distracted."

"That's not what I'm here for," John insisted.

"Oh, I know," Mycroft answered. "You are here because you want to ask something of me."

John internally sighed. He really wondered how it was possible to be around these Holmes brothers.

"Yes. Sherlock's working on a case. He's been at it tirelessly—obsessively, even—and—"

"That seems normal enough to me."

"— _and_ he's not getting anywhere. There are _lives_ at stake here, Mycroft, but he refuses to go to anyone for help."

"So you're asking me to help him," Mycroft said, mild surprise in his voice.

"I didn't know….Yes. Supposedly, you're the only one better at making deductions than he is."

Mycroft, for the first time during the conversation, broke eye contact with John. He looked contemplatively out the window of the office for a brief moment before saying, "I don't believe it's my job to solve my brother's cases for him."

John blinked.

Mycroft looked to him and continued, completely matter-of-fact. "You may think poorly of me for this, but there are other tasks to which I must attend. I have no doubt that my brother's case is not unsolvable and I think it best that we just leave him alone and give him some time." He stood, straightened his immaculate suit, and reached for his umbrella, which was resting to John's right.

John snatched the umbrella before Mycroft could get to it. He fixed the man behind the British government with a hard stare. "Mycroft. I don't know if I made this clear enough—or if you even care—but there are people who are going to die. There's one thing Sherlock is certain about," he asserted, "and that's that this killer isn't done. That's not his style, apparently. The longer we wait, the more lives this city's going to lose. Now does that change _anything_ for you?"

Mycroft sighed. "Dr Watson, there is one thing you must realize. If my brother hasn't gone to get help yet, what makes you think that I could approach him about it? If he doesn't _want_ help, do you really believe he'd accept it?"

The realization that this was why Mycroft wouldn't help—not that he didn't want to, but that he felt he couldn't—suddenly made John a lot less angry. He glanced at the floor and offered Mycroft's umbrella to him.

Mycroft took it and re-straightened his suit, despite the fact that it had barely budged since he last straightened it.

"Wonderful to catch up with you," Mycroft said with a tiny hint of sarcasm. "There'll be a car waiting for you outside."

John sighed and said nothing. He stood as Mycroft began to turn away. He worked the situation over in his head and started to feel a bit angry once again.

"You know," he said before Mycroft was out the door, stopping the taller man, "just because someone doesn't want help doesn't mean they don't need it."

Mycroft turned halfway back to him. "And I suppose," he mused with a tight smile, "that is the difference between you and me, Dr Watson."


	7. The Weather

Days passed. Gloomy, rainy days. Sherlock's search for the answer to this case grew more futile. John started to think that this would be one case—one of the very, very few—which Sherlock Holmes would not solve. In John's opinion, it was already a lost cause. They were gaining no more information as time passed.

Until, of course, the third murder. Like before, the circumstances seemed completely unlike those preceding the instance before. An older man was found this time in his own car at the parking lot of a hotel. It was estimated that he had been dead a whole day, and this time there was no trace of pseudaconitine in his body, but the symptoms of death were the same. Sherlock determined through a few hours at St Bart's' lab that there had been pseudaconitine in the man's system, but it had broken down over time into less recognisable molecules. Nevertheless, the new death seemed to revitalise Sherlock and he set out on this case with new vigour.

"The situations were different for a reason," he declared to no one in particular, tossing away a pipette and splashing the remains of his alleged "extraction solvent" into the sink. "He's trying to cover up something. Something obvious that was similar between the three events. John, give me something."

"Uh, give you what?"

"Something! Anything! What's similar about these three murders—what connects them?"

John really didn't want to say anything for fear of feeling completely stupid. Regardless, he thought for a moment. He thought longer. He looked to Sherlock, helpless. "I don't know, Sherlock. The past few days have been grey and repressing and completely unmemorable."

Sherlock froze. His eyes darted back and forth as something occurred to him.

"John, you're brilliant," he said, sounding rather surprised. "It was raining. Each time before every murder, it had been raining."

John pursed his lips slightly and blinked a few times. He had no idea how on earth that would help Sherlock, but he had to admit it was nice to feel appreciated, even if he'd helped on accident.

Sherlock was already sweeping out of the room, leaving his chemical mess behind.

"Sherlock," John said, starting to follow him, "where are you going? What about this rubbish?" He gestured to the glassware on the table, though Sherlock wasn't looking at him.

"You're right," Sherlock said, not turning back as he threw open the door with a bit more flourish than necessary, "I need to talk to my brother. And don't worry about the mess, Molly will clean it up."


	8. The Solution

Sherlock sat in his typical spot, his elbows on his knees and his fingers steepled in front of him.

"Sherlock? What are you waiting for? Is Mycroft coming here?"

Sherlock was deep in thought and didn't want to look up at John, who would have been distracting with all the tiny details about him that had changed since they saw each other a few minutes ago. "Yes. He's not particularly punctual, either."

"Is there any use in my staying here?"

Sherlock glanced at him and shrugged.

"Well, fine then, I'm going for a walk."

Right then, Mrs Hudson came up the stairs.

"Sherlock, your brother's here to see you. He's been down there a little while. Didn't you hear the doorbell? He was going to just come in, but I told him to wait while I fetched you."

"Don't worry about it, Mrs Hudson," John said, setting a hand on her shoulder as he slid past her in the doorway, "I'm headed out. I'll send him up."

A few moments later, Mycroft entered the room.

"You must be desperate, brother," he said with that not-uncommon smirk in his voice. "It's been a rather long time since you asked for my help."

"Don't gloat, Mycroft," Sherlock said sharply. "You wouldn't be here if you weren't seeking _company_."

"Company?" Mycroft echoed, raising his eyebrows. He gave Sherlock a dry smile. "I'm here because you're not the first person to want me to help you."

Sherlock frowned. "John? Why would John want your help?"

" _He_ didn't want my help—he wanted _you_ to have my help. I believe he's been concerned."

"Concerned?" Sherlock said, echoing in the same fashion has brother had a moment ago. "Why would he be concerned about me?"

Mycroft sighed, making himself at home in John's chair. "This isn't why I'm here, Sherlock. I don't pretend to understand your colleague."

"Well, neither do I, really." He paused. "Yes, the case. I'm missing something."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, waiting.

Sherlock collected his overabundance of thoughts and began to explain. He explained everything. Every little observation, every little detail. The man in the office, asphyxiated. The dust in the office, the scratches on the door, the weather. The woman at the bus stop, also asphyxiated. Her clothing, the bench, the weather. The more Sherlock spoke, the more his explanation seemed rehearsed. After all, he'd already explained all of this to John multiple times. John hadn't been there most of those times, but that didn't matter. He continued. The man in his car, asphyxiated. The marks on the car window, the keys still stuck in the ignition. And the weather.

"There's something very obvious you're neglecting," Mycroft said after a minute digesting this information.

"Yes," hissed Sherlock, more excitedly than angrily, "what is it?"

Mycroft's mouth tightened into an almost sort of smile. "You remember that old game we used to play? I would give you a situation—a challenge—and ask you questions for one minute. You had to answer everything correctly and come to a conclusion by then, or you lost. I think it's time we put that to use, don't you?"

Sherlock looked at him slightly crossly and gave a small nod.

"I can't make deductions without more evidence," Mycroft continued. "But I may be able to formulate theories if you give me more to work off of. I can lead you in the right direction, but you're going to have to think about this carefully."

"Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft, I never forget anything unless I delete it."

Mycroft fixed him with a firm, analytic stare. "Then answer my questions. First, what did the floor of the office look like? You described it as dusty hardwood, what else?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and immersed himself in his memory. "Other than the dust, it was clean. Clean, except…except for footprints. The man's footprints, with hints of mud."

"Good," he heard Mycroft say, "what about the man's clothing?"

"His clothes were dry," Sherlock noted, revisiting the scene and observing the man's clothing. "But it had been a while. If he'd been out in the rain, they would have dried off."

"No, you're already blocking evidence," Mycroft said, and Sherlock opened his eyes briefly to see his brother's impatient face. "Ignore that they were dry, there was other evidence."

Sherlock frowned deeply and closed his eyes again. "His shoes were muddy. We know it was raining at the time he got to the office, so he must have got wet. Oh!" he exclaimed as another piece of evidence stuck out to him. "His hair product. I noticed it at the time. His hair still smelled of product, which would've been washed out if he'd been exposed to the downpour. He had an umbrella," he said, open his eyes. "How had I missed that?"

"But he didn't have it with him at the office," Mycroft said.

"No, obviously, or I would have noticed it."

"Next case."

"Already?"

"Don't question it, we may already have what we need. The woman. Had she fallen off the bench, or collapsed standing _by_ the bench?"

Sherlock changed scenes in his mind. He was back at the bus stop now. The woman was lying on the pavement next to the bench. It could have gone either way…. Sherlock wished he had paid more attention to the bench at the time.

Nevertheless, his mental reconstruction of the scene was incredibly accurate. He walked up to the bench and examined it with the scrutiny of a man making his way through a minefield. It had flakes of chipped paint and rust across the surface of it.

"She never sat on the bench. The paint was peeling and it was rusted. The paint and rust on the bench would have been scraped off if she had sat on it."

"Which means…" prompted Mycroft, probably already knowing but waiting for Sherlock to say it.

"She didn't need the cover under the bus stop to keep from the rain."

"She had an umbrella."

Sherlock's eyes opened. "Why do you feel the umbrellas are so important, Mycroft? Granted, I know you're fond of them, but what is this doing for the case?"

"Can't you _see_ , Sherlock?" Mycroft stressed, leaning forward slightly. "Every time, they had an umbrella, yet there was no such object found with the body."

"The killer is hiding something," Sherlock realized. "Something about the umbrellas."

Mycroft smiled slightly but said, "Last murder. The man in the car."

Sherlock didn't have to immerse himself in the memory this time. "The leather on the passenger seat was cracked and paled, as if he'd set something there which had caused a pool of water. So he'd also had one, but he'd set it aside when he got in the vehicle. Somehow, it was gone by the time we found him. They're getting exposed to the pseudaconitine through the umbrellas."

Mycroft gave a single, slow nod. "Now you've got it, brother. All—"

Mycroft silenced himself immediately because he must have seen the sudden panic in Sherlock's eyes.

" _John_ ," Sherlock said, and was out of the room in an instant.


	9. The Atropine

The door to 221B burst open as John walked up to it, almost making him jump in surprise.

"Good god, Sherlock, what's got you—"

"The umbrella, John," Sherlock said loudly and firmly. "Put it down right now."

John dropped it without question. "What is going on?"

"What are you feeling?" Sherlock demanded, taking John by the shoulders. "Physically, what are you feeling?"

John shook his head in confusion, but paused to take a mental inventory. "I suppose…my arm feels a bit tingly, I don't know, I didn't think it was—"

"Do you remember me telling you the symptoms of pseudaconitine poisoning? Is that what you're feeling now?" Sherlock still had a firm hold of John's shoulders.

"Yeah, yeah, I do. Um—" He stopped. His confusion about Sherlock's behaviour suddenly evaporated. He looked Sherlock in the eyes and felt a stab of fear in his gut. "It was on my umbrella, wasn't it?" he said, his voice surprisingly calm.

Sherlock gave the faintest nod.

With that, John's knees buckled and he collapsed.

Sherlock heaved John into the flat and left him on the floor in front of the doorway. John was still conscious, but he was going into paralysis.

"Oh, John!" said a fearful Mrs Hudson from behind Sherlock.

"I'll call an ambulance," Mycroft said, infuriatingly calm.

"No," Sherlock snapped at his brother. He was looking frantically around the flat as he said, "You could but he doesn't have _time_."

Sherlock stopped for a moment and mentally panned through the hundreds of things he knew about pseudaconitine.

"Atropine!" he burst out. "I need atropine!"

Sherlock knew immediately that there was no such drug in the flat.

He was wrong.

"My room," John managed from the floor. "Bedside cabinet."

Sherlock didn't question. He had gone up, got the ampoule and a syringe, and come back down to John's side in less than thirty seconds.

The only sound Sherlock could hear while he was swiftly drawing the atropine into the syringe was his brother talking on his phone down the stairs. Otherwise, the room was silent.

Sherlock felt John's pulse to ensure that it was safe to give him the drug and slowly injected it.

The next minute passed without a word from anyone. Mycroft re-entered the room and Mrs Hudson must have still been there, but Sherlock took no notice of either of them.

John twitched slightly. He took a sharp breath and sat up suddenly. He looked dizzy and slightly confused. He glanced around and found Sherlock's face.

"I…." He looked around again. He seemed to reorient himself and understand what was going on. "One of the side effects of atropine is nausea," he said vaguely, and threw up in front of Sherlock.

A rush of relief flooded through Sherlock. He hadn't realized he'd been so rigid, but he finally relaxed. He could hear sirens outside as the emergency vehicles stopped on the street in front of 221B.

"So you figured it out, then," John said, lowering himself back to the floor. "You can stop worrying about the case."

Sherlock snorted quietly. "Right now, John, that's the last of my concerns."


	10. The Murderer

**Two days later**

"Sherlock? What…exactly are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

John took inventory of the things sitting on the table. "It looks like you're dissecting my umbrella. My poisonous umbrella. That's one thing I never thought I'd say."

Sherlock didn't look amused. "That is, in a sense, exactly what I'm doing. Why is it that you people never believe your own eyes?"

John was used to this kind of remark and certainly didn't take it personally. In fact, he was glad things were back to normal.

"So?" John asked. "What're you finding?"

"Ingenuity."

"What?"

"I'm finding ingenuity. Whoever designed this was clever."

"Isn't it just an umbrella?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. It was crafted to look almost exactly like yours, but it isn't."

"So? How does it work? I did nearly get killed by it, I'd rather like to know."

Sherlock pulled his gloves off. "Pseudaconitine," he began, "is very slightly soluble in water. It's even more so in alcohol. Your umbrella—or what looked like your umbrella—contained both alcohol and the poison. The inside had been made into a carrying compartment specifically for these two things. Near the top was just a few millilitres of alcohol. It was suspended in a thin, collapsible tube that ran down the length of the umbrella. The poison was kept, in solid form, in the handle. The top of the umbrella had a small hole which allowed rainwater to run into the stick, collect the alcohol—water and alcohol are miscible, of course—and flow to the handle. The handle was very slightly porous, which allowed the mixture of poison, alcohol, and water to move outward to the carrier's hand. So slight they would barely notice, but enough to give a gradually lethal dose."

John raised his eyebrows. He took in this information for a moment and said, "Who did it, then? Do we know that?"

" _I_ do not," said Sherlock, "so _we_ definitely do not. I have a question for you, John."

"Hm?"

"Why atropine? Why did you have atropine in your beside cabinet?"

"Oh. Weird thing I'm still carrying around after the war, actually. I'm glad it's gone, to be honest—it was never useful. Until two days ago, anyway." He looked at Sherlock. "If you thought I was using it, you're mad. Or more so than usual. I hear it's quite nasty on its own. I certainly never expected it to save my life now that I'm here."

"Come now John, you really think I wouldn't have noticed if you started using a potentially hallucinogenic drug generally used to treat bradycardia? I know you a bit better than that."

"Sometimes, Sherlock," John said, "when I'm around you, I wish I could do drugs." He glanced down at the table. "For example, you do have splinters of wood, various test tubes, and no doubt small amounts of a very powerful poison all over the kitchen table, among the chemicals you normally have here."

For a moment, nothing was said. Then they looked at each other and both burst out chuckling.

"Boys," Mrs Hudson called from the stairwell, "the doorbell just rang. Can't you hear it? You might want to find out who it is."

Sherlock tossed his gloves onto the table and headed down the stairs. John followed.

When Sherlock opened the door, there was nothing there. There wasn't even anyone within fifty metres of the door. Sherlock stepped out, glanced around, and must have caught sight of something on the door.

John watched his friend pull a paper out from under the knocker and read it. "What's that?"

"That," said Sherlock, almost triumphantly, "is our murderer."

John frowned and took the proffered paper from Sherlock's hand.

 _It's been terribly fun to play with you,_ it said. _I look forward to next time. -M_


End file.
